


Don't swing that way

by Xagrok



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-25 08:43:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4953844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xagrok/pseuds/Xagrok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Be careful, even on playgrounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't swing that way

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a terrible person.
> 
> Looking back, I would now write several things within this story differently... Alas, I hope you'll still enjoy it.

It started out on a sunny autumn afternoon. I told my mother that I’d be home later; I informed her of my will to play outside and she permitted it. I was to return at eight o'clock the next day, seeing as I was staying over at a friend’s house afterwards.

The leaves filled the air with the sound of ther rustling, the rain before gave the ar a vibrant, alive-seeming smell, and there was just the slightest amount of moistness filling the otherwise dry, bright orange and red-coloured scenery. My friend and I were making our way towards the nearest playground. There were multiple ones in our city, but not only was this the closest, it also had the most fun things - A slide, climbing frames,see-saws, and swings and other playing utensils.

Of course, we were here in a group. The more, the merrier, isn’t it? We all decided to take turns. Five minutes later, laughter filled the breeze flowing through our hair - until a blood-curling scream pierced the scene. We all looked at the shocking scene of one of the girls, Kyouko, a japanese beauty, yelling as she swung higher and higher, not lessening the impact of swinging, not lessening the pressure of her fingers, knckles still white, not lessening the terror of her face.

The the chains snapped and sent her flying.

Her body landed on the ground with a violent crush, her neck bringing forth the sound of a sickening snap, the seat of the swing landing on her head and crushing it. I wasn’t able to see her face, but even being the young boy I was, I knew that the red liquid flowing was no good sign. We stood in shock and started screaming shortly afterwards.

The police wasn’t able to find out the cause and put the case on hold.

Two days after her funeral, I accompanied another friend to the playground, Matt. I sat on a bank, not really in the mood to play, and simply watched him using the swing. The one on the other playground had been taken down for the investigation. It was, again, a nice, pleasant day and only a few clouds obstructed the sunshine, casting theior shadows on the ground and slowly marching the sky.

While I just looked at the leaves slowly falling, I heard chuckles from Matt. I smiled to that; he had always been one of the people cheering others up while being able not to overdo it. He was quiet, but when he interacted with others, he usually made them smile, especially when they were down.

The chuckles rose in volume until a gasp snuck in between. My gaze rose to him and I froze. He was visibly putting all of his energy into his swings, rising and rising, the chains protesting the centrifugal force. His face was distorted with anxiety, his mouth giving a not hearable plead for help.

Then the chains snapped. He did a pirouette in the air, an almost graceul backflip. His body hit a young tree, breaking it down with a crunch. I got closer to him. Maybe he could still be helped? But his mouth, always twisted into a smile, now was a contorted mask of fear, his eyes void of the shine they usually held.

It happened again and again.

I don’t know why. Nobody helped, and mysteriously enough, we were always alone - no adults, just some other kids at max. The others never seemed to remember that everyone prior to them died due to an accident on the swing - either the chains snapped, the whole structure collapsed on top of them, the leaned down with their heads and snapped their necks; one even exploding after a metal bar created a spark near an undiscovered gas leak - but everyone died.

The police, understandably enough, suspected me of sabotage and actually sent an officer to accompany us to a playground. The first time, the child still died, the second time, it crashed into the officer with such force that both of their lives were snuffed out.

I, myself, tried to commit suicide multiple times, but the curse of the swings never worked with me.

After some weeks or months or years, the swings haunted me ino my dreams, replaying the death scenes or torturing me with visions of myself choking on their chains, having bones brokes or seeing people who were still alive dying by its vicious mechanisms. I can write this down after the psychologist I saw recommended writing down my dreams. He died, too; the pipes of a transport for the construction of a swing piercing his body.

We tried moving. We tried demontaging the local swings, playgrounds even. I tried never going out. It didn’t work. People continued dying.

They brought me into a special psychiatry for children and teenagers - with a swing in the courtyard. The nightmare that my life had become never ended.

One night, only the moon illuminated my room. I heard the wind blowing outside, the gale tearing away at the walls and rattling the windows. I smelled oil and heard creaking. I looked out of the window. The damn swing was moving in the wind - strangely enough, it didn’t seem to be the raging storm, but rather like a quiet breeze, like the fateful day all these years ago.

I felt my hairs rise like there was an electric impulse. It called out to me. The swing invited me for a quick midnight stroll outside to use it.

And after all of these years of anxiety, fear, terror, torture…

I was glad to take the offer.

The guard I met just looked at me, a little spooked. Not for long. He fell back to sleep.

With a spoon embedded in his lungs.

He probably was just another savage swing anyway, wanting to kill me. I had done the riight thing and saved the other patients. And in any case, I had to meet my friendly, nice saviour.

The doors were easy to break. I just used the key I stole from the disguised, evil swing. And my meeting partner stood outside. If it had more human features, it would have greeted me with a nod and a warm smile. I smiled back. I looked forward to our experience together.

I sat on him, gently touching and stroking the metal that I held onto.I appreciated the slightly hard, but very comfortable seat. I started by kicking myself a little backwards. I reached the highest point. And while gravitiy pulled me back to my original spot, I used a little impact forward to arise further on the other side. I repeated the practice again and again and let a relieved laugh loose. I was free.

Then I opened my eyes and saw that I was almost falling into the sky. The smile was gone, the laughter fell silen, my eyes widened. Then gravity pulled me down again with an alarming force and speed.

Death was not gentle. The rip that broke up the links of the chain was not loving. The air currents that almost cut my body and cooled it down were not welcoming. The chain links that hit my torso, my neck, my nose, teeth, eyes, were not stroking them, but breaking them. The ground did not welcome me friendly, but rather like one would welcome a persistend chapman who didn’t know when to quit. And finally, the pipes that the wind blasted towards me after the swing fell apart were not merely nudging me - they were penetrating my body, ripping apart capillaries, smashing my ribcage, filling my lungs with my life essence.

My mouth didn’t smile after this experience. And I was a fool not to heed the old warning.

_Swinging that way will kill you._

**Author's Note:**

> This was based on an article about how swings on schoolyards in America were being demontaged due to children dying. It struck me as rather quaint in comparison to all the people dying due to violence. Therefore, I felt inspired to write something. Originally meant as crack, this apparently became rather dark, according to other persons.
> 
> By the bye, this story is not meant to be taken seriously. Since this was written in the course of one-two hours, I didn't even research things. That's one of the things I'd do differently now.
> 
> Also, if you read this before you read the story, you will have spoilered yourself. That's why this was written at the bottom. The story is meant to be read first.


End file.
